Clink, clash, taste, mash, sniff, cut, mix, stir, breathe, whip, whir, steel & plastic, countertops full, wiping down the kitchen, standing at the sink, wash, scrub, press, knead, serving platters and dinner plates and forks and spoons and knives…
I can still hear those busy sounds…big steel spoons in huge iron pots and fresh herbs in the blender making green seasoning or mangoes and strawberries for shakes. And those spicy smells dancing from my kitchen and into the living room where I played my red guitar with the plastic strings…anise-curry-coconut-fish-garlic-onions-cloves. I can feel warm summer city-breeze coming through the open window. I can see my Mommy…young, sexy Trini gal, in running shorts and platforms, hand on her hip, putting love into the pot of rice & peas…
I stand in the kitchen
I forget where the time goes
While I chop and dice, saute and fry, pick and slice, grill and stew, peel and marinate
In my life, the relationship between food and emotion has been undeniably codependent. Which came first? The chicken or the egg? Food or feelings? The food choices I make are most often based on how I feel—Am I gonna be ‘good’ today? Am I really hungry or am I bored/tired/depressed/anxious? Do I feel like cooking & cleaning?
I am thinking about this cooking thing. Cooking stuff. Cooking foods. Providing nourishment.
My recipes are rarely written
My apron is chock full of edible ideas
I cook in the moment
My hands revel in the doing, the making
The heat of the stove
The cracked oven door
The cool of the refrigerator
Cooking delights my senses
Spices are like adjectives and exclamation points stirring up in the pot